I picture to myself the life of
the mother and child down there in the country; the illness of the
mother, the schemes of and inventions of the child sell the
precious stones in order to save his mother's life, or, at least,
soothe her dying moments. Her illness overcomes her. She dies.
Years roll on. The child becomes a man; and then--and now I will
give my imagination a free rein--let us suppose that the man feels a
desire to return to the home of his childhood, that he does so, and
that he meets there certain people who suspect and accuse his
mother....do you realize the sorrow and anguish of such an
interview in the very house wherein the original drama was played?"
His words seemed to echo for a few seconds in the ensuing silence,
and one could read upon the faces of the Count and Countess de
Dreux a bewildered effort to comprehend his meaning and, at the
same time, the fear and anguish of such a comprehension. The count
spoke at last, and said:
"Who are you, monsieur?"
"I? The chevalier Floriani, whom you met at Palermo, and whom you
have been gracious enough to invite to your house on several
occasions."
"Then what does this story mean?"
"Oh! nothing at all! It is simply a pastime, so far as I am
concerned.
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